


These Small Hours

by Linxcat



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/Linxcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lipwig flashed an instinctive smile at the comment and made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a cough. Despite himself, concern filled Vimes. What the hell had got the fastest mouth this side of the Disc so tongue-tied?</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Small Hours

>   
> _Our lives are made, in these small hours, these little wonders, these twists and turns of fate._
> 
> _Time falls away, but these small hours, these small hours, still remain._
> 
> ~ 'These Small Hours', Rob Thomas

It is a well known fact that those who are happily inhabiting the world of slumber are usually incredibly reluctant to leave it. Up until the moment he was forced out of it, Commander Samuel Vimes was one of those people, which was why he did not go quietly. He was dragged kicking and screaming and biting back into consciousness by two hands firmly shaking his shoulders. He tried to push them away but they persisted.

"Excuse me, sir. Sir…Sir…"

He recognized the voice and wished he didn't.

"Mllff?"

"There's a young man at the door, sir. He says it's urgent."

Vimes opened his eyes and squinted blearily into the candle-lit face of Willikins. The butler was dressed in his nightshirt, and Sam's body clock took the moment to inform him that it was the middle of the night, or possibly early morning. Either way, he was not supposed to be awake.

"Wherrghh?"

"It's a Mr Lipwig, sir." Willikins said patiently, stepping back as if he was anticipating his master to get up.

"Lip...wig?" Now Vimes was awake. He did not get up, but instead snorted and waved a hand, "The idiot in the gold suit? Pfft, tell him to," he yawned widely, "bugger off."

"He says it's urgent, sir. He seemed rather upset about something."

"Sam…" that was Sybil. Sam sat up wearily and yawned again, glancing at his wife. She was giving him a reproachful look, although her sleepy eyes meant it didn't carry much weight.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, swinging his legs out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown and slippers, "This had better be good…"

Vimes shuffled down the staircase after the butler and met the young man, Ankh-Morpork's Postmaster General, Royal Bank Chairman and Taxmaster, looking unusually anxious. He'd only ever seen two expressions on Mr Lipwig's face; his practically patented cheeky grin, designed to win hearts and trust, and a fleeting flicker of absolute terror that had passed over his face about a year ago, when he and his wife had bought their new house and discovered that the commander of the Watch lived almost next door.

This expression was new. It was a combination of fear, bemusement and general antsy-ness. None of that trademark confidence that came with the silly suit – Mr Lipwig was bedraggled, as if he had dressed in a hurry, his hair mussed up, wearing just a half-buttoned shirt and trousers. He approached Vimes quickly, but Vimes jumped in before he could start any of his charismatic rubbish.

Payback time, Mr Smooth-talker.

"Ah, Mr Lipwig, I hardly recognized you without the hat. You truly are remarkably unremarkable." Vimes growled, folding his arms and leaning against the balustrade at the bottom of the stairs. He could really do with a cigar. Or coffee. Or both. Preferably both.

Lipwig flashed an instinctive smile at the comment and made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a cough. Despite himself, concern filled Vimes. What the hell had got the fastest mouth this side of the Disc so tongue-tied?

"Look, commander, sorry for waking you up, you know I wouldn't be here if it wasn't an emergency. But Adora, my wife, has just gone into labour, and," the man laughed bitterly and squeezed the bridge of his nose before continuing, "We had to send the midwife back home because she caught Klatchian flu. Yesterday. _Yesterday_. We haven't had a chance to find a replacement, she wasn't due for another few weeks but, gods, no one in my household can deliver a baby!"

Mr Lipwig broke off in a semi-hysterical gasp, took a second or so to pull himself together, looked up and then carried on, asking weakly, "I don't suppose you still have the address for...?"

"Yes, of course, but she moved to Psuedopolis about two years ago." Vimes felt a wave of relief as Sybil, who must have followed him downstairs, bustled past, businesslike in the chaos, "Willikins, take the coach and try and find Dr Lawn, he may be able to find another midwife." she took their neighbour firmly by his all-but-trembling shoulders, "Mr Lipwig. Go back home and tell your maid to prepare warm water and towels. Make your wife as comfortable as possible. I will be over as soon as I am dressed and will do all I can to help."

Lipwig grabbed her hands, gasped a heartfelt "Thank you!" before heading swiftly for the exit. Vimes saw the man sprinting across the expanse of gardens that separated their houses, disappearing from view as he changed direction sharply to scramble in through the front door.

Vimes turned and realised Sybil was already up the stairs and heading for the bedroom to get dressed. He hurried after her, waking Purity to explain what was going on, then leaning in the doorway as his wife pulled on her stockings.

Sybil looked up and frowned at her husband. He recognised that look and pressed himself further back into the door frame.

"You're not expecting me to-?"

She sighed, "Sam, the poor man will need someone to distract him."

"But I don't even know Lipwig, let alone _like_ him!"

"Sam, it doesn't matter who you are, or who he is. He _needs_ us."

Vimes pulled a face, feeling uncomfortably like a small child being chided. When she put it that way...

The inner-watchman scolded him for forgetting his job, and although his trouser-donning was grudging, the brief smile that Sybil directed his way made up for it.

About five minutes later, Vimes met the Lipwig family butler as he awkwardly knocked at the front door.

"Commander Vimes," the man greeted in surprise, "I have just shown your wife upstairs, I was aware that she is assisting but-"

"I'm here to see Lipwig." Vimes growled, wishing he'd remembered to bring his cigars. Maybe when Willikins returned he would send him back for them.

The butler nodded respectfully, "Ah, of course, sir. If you require anything, sir, I will be in the kitchen just down that corridor," he indicated as they passed on their way up the grand staircase that dominated the hall, "Do not hesitate to ask, sir. Mr Lipwig is just along here."

Vimes saw the agitated young man in question pacing outside a door that he assumed lead to the source of his distress – namely, his wife. Gods, it was going to be a long night.

"Thank you, uh...?"

"Wooster, sir. Bertram Wooster."

There was something distinctly _wrong_ about the butler's name, but Vimes couldn't place what it was so shrugged it off and instead nodded politely. Then he turned his attention to Lipwig.

The young man looked up as Vimes approached, his instinctive smile wan, hands clasped together and wringing. He swallowed and backed away nervously, criminal habit betraying him.

"Uhm. Commander?"

"Lipwig." Vimes opened his mouth, and had no idea what to say.

What had Sybil said? Distract him. Distract him. _Right._

"C'mon then." He grabbed the alarmed Lipwig by the arm.

"I'm sor-?"

He gestured to a door at the end of the corridor, "Spare room?"

"Well, yes, but there's no furniture, we only just finished the house last week..." Lipwig fidgeted, glancing back over his shoulder at The Room.

"Right," Vimes clapped him on the shoulder, "Go get two chairs and the biggest bottle of brandy you can find. Go."

Confused, but relieved to have something to do other than worry, Moist von Lipwig took the stairs two at a time (he tried three at a time first, then nearly fell headlong on to the very solid floor) and disappeared around the corner.

Vimes ground his teeth and pushed open the door to the spare room, sticking his head inside; it was small, with two windows and a fireplace, whitewashed walls, and it was also freezing cold. He stepped back and leant over the banister behind him.

"Wooster?"

There was a pause of about three seconds before the butler appeared in the hall below, "Yes, sir?"

"Could you bring up some firewood to the spare room at the end of the landing? And tell Mister Sunbeam not to panic, I'll be back momentarily."

"Of course, sir."

Vimes took the stairs rather more gracefully than Lipwig before him, marvelling at the unnatural speed of the butler as he reappeared with armfuls of small logs before Vimes had even reached the last step.

Vampire, no doubt, he thought darkly as he quickly crossed the expanse of garden back to his home, always trying to be better. Ugh. Although, he'd never heard of a vampire that didn't have a distinctly Uberwaldian surname...Wooster didn't have a v, or even a k. Maybe it was traditionally pronounced _Vooster_?

The Commander, now much more relaxed with a lit cigar in his mouth, met Wooster again as he returned to the Lipwig household, and gave him a suspicious look for good measure.

Mr Lipwig was loitering anxiously on the landing, back outside The Door, so Vimes shooed him along and into the spare room. A small wave of warmth hit him as he entered – Wooster had not only provided wood, but had lit the fire, of course – and two chairs, with a sufficiently sized bottle and two wide glasses on the mantelpiece, were a welcome greeting.

Vimes gestured that the young man sit down, and he took the seat opposite him. There was an awkward silence. Lipwig stood up and took the bottle from the mantle, pouring out the two glasses then holding one towards his guest. Vimes shook his head.

"No, that brandy's for you." he said firmly.

"For me?" Lipwig blinked, then proffered the other glass. Vimes shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"No, you idiot. I meant, it's all for you. I don't drink. And, trust me, you're going to need it tonight. These are going to be the longest few hours of your life."

Lipwig sat down, putting one drink on the floor by his chair leg and nursing the other in his hand. There was another very awkward silence. For some reason, an image of Great A'Tuin was brought to mind. Then Lipwig cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, Commander, is there a particular reason that you're here?" he fidgeted in his seat. Gods, Vimes, thought, I never noticed how much he fidgets. "Its just, this isn't exactly the best time..."

"My wife suggested you have someone to...distract you." Vimes said, a tad defensively.

"Oh." He saw a cocktail of amusement and light irritation in the younger man's eyes that suggested Lipwig didn't think he was doing a particularly good job at it.

The previously interrupted awkward silence resumed. It was becoming a bit of a pattern now. Feet shuffled. Vimes stood and poked the fire. Lipwig took a sip from his drink, and then another in quick succession.

Distract him. Distract him. How on earth did you distract a man whose mouth seemed to run his body instead of his brain…?

_By talking._

"Lipwig, is your butler a vampire?"

The question came totally out of the blue, and both men looked surprised. If Lipwig had noticed the commander's interrogative tone, he either politely ignored it or figured it was best he went along with it.

"A vampire? Goodness, no." He shook his head and swirled his drink, "He's just incredibly efficient. I wondered it myself for a while and I did ask him, but he said his family came from Lancre and he'd never so much as set foot in Uberwald, not that that means much nowadays, you find vampires everywhere, and its not so bad now that they've started that Black Ribb-" Lipwig cut himself off, "I'm rambling."

"You've also- hey!" Vimes grabbed the man's wrist as brandy sloshed over the sides of the glass that he was now violently swirling. "Careful!"

Lipwig swore, putting the now nearly empty glass down on the floor beside the second and going to dab at his sleeve, before realizing his handkerchief was not there and giving up with a groan and a dismissive wave of the hand. Vimes sat back and watched as the young man's outer layer of cheery, charismatic foppishness disintegrated into stress and despair.

So maybe getting him to talk wasn't the greatest idea…

He could see Lipwig's racing thoughts as if they had been branded on his eyelids -

_What if something goes wrong? What if I lose her? What if we lose the baby?_

They were the very same thoughts that had ransacked his own mind before Young Sam was born. Well, the thoughts that he assumed had - there had been very little time to think, and he'd spent most of it running around the city naked. But, still, he did remember the darting, blind panic that had breached the banks of his composure. A flicker of sympathy made its way into Vimes' heart. However…

Ah, there it was. Lipwig rubbed his hands down his face and shot him a look with troubled-eyes. If this were a book, or a particularly bad play, this would be the point where Vimes would impart some inner knowledge about fatherhood, finishing in an impassioned speech about how you never, ever left your child unless you had to, and how you did the job with all your heart or not at all.

Vimes was very relieved that this wasn't a book or a cheesy play. Troubled-eyes were an indicator of a heart-to-heart approaching, and he wanted a heart-to-heart like he wanted a hole in the head.

And here it came, stalking over. He fended it off with both hands and a Very Stern Look.

"You can give up the act, Mr Lipwig."

"I…what?" Lipwig blinked innocently at him. He shook his head.

"The act. You don't want to talk about your feelings, and I sure as hell don't want to either. You can drop the Golden Man act now."

Lipwig looked a little relieved. "Usually makes people like you, talking about feelings." he picked the first glass up off the floor and took the rest of the brandy in a large gulp, wincing a little as it burned his throat. He gestured with it, "Most people like the act more than they like me, thankfully."

Vimes nodded, inwardly smirking, "No one is really that friendly."

Lipwig gave a sort of dreamy smile, "The Golden Man is my favourite one. I don't really have to do much at all; just be patient and make sure to keep any unpleasant attributes to myself." he returned his gaze to Vimes, "Adora said that was why she married me. She finds the acts absolutely fascinating." one corner of his smile tugged up in a crooked grin at the mention of his wife, before drooping again.

"This is getting too close to talking about personal lives, Lipwig." Vimes growled. Lipwig laughed.

"Not at all, Commander. Not at all." he yawned, and Vimes noticed his thumbs rubbing persistently against the sides of the glass, which was clutched very tightly in his hands, and how his front teeth would dig ever so slightly into his bottom lip whenever he wasn't talking.

So the anxiety wasn't fake. The real him was just better at controlling it than the Golden Man was expected to be - the Postmaster General, he was friendly, but a bit of a fop really, yes? And it was convention that people like him panicked amusingly and loudly. That was all there was to it. It was all about living up to what people expected of you. And what about the other parts of the act? The snarky wife as a foil to the fool of a businessman?

"You love her."

"Of course I bloody do." then the smile returned, and Vimes had the feeling that Lipwig was slipping back into the Golden Man act. Or maybe he was finding it difficult to see the seams between his acts and his personality. "But that's personal life, Commander!"

Both men's ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Wooster knocked on the door, then opened it a crack to stick his head through.

"Dr Lawn his here, sir, with a Mrs Paisley. I've shown him in to your wife. He says not to worry."

Any tension Lipwig had lost in the last few minutes suddenly reappeared. Vimes swore under his breath.

"Ah- uhm - yes, thank you, Wooster."

"Anything else, sir?"

"Do you have some sort of potion to make time go faster?" Lipwig asked, apparently all sincerity.

Wooster barely faltered, "Well, sir, I could go and fetch a wizard and-"

"Forget it, Wooster."

"Yes, sir."

Wooster had barely retreated from the room, when Drumknott opened the door after a polite knock.

"You have an appointment with his lordship, Mr Lipwig, Commander Vimes. He says there is no hurry."

A second later, halfway down the stairs, Vimes heard Lipwig swearing between his teeth beside him.

"Now? Gods! I _swear_ he does this deliberately!"

"Oh, he does."

"Bloody tyrant!"

As they stepped out into the air, Vimes noted distantly that it had begun to snow. It was also very cold, so they got into the black coach quickly. Vetinari greeted them with what would have been a warm smile on any other face. Even a crocodile's smile would have been warmer. And at least the crocodile would eat you afterwards.

"Ah, Commander Vimes, Mr Lipwig." he nodded to them in turn, "So nice to see the pillars of the community getting to know each other."

As the coach started, Lipwig became visibly more agitated. "Look, your lordship, this really isn't a great time-"

"And when would be a good time, Mr Lipwig?" Vetinari raised an eyebrow masterfully, "After your second hanging, perhaps? Maybe you would like to reconsider that statement."

Lipwig opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then clamped it shut and squeezed it into a furious line.

"I thought so."

And Vimes thought - Gods, he cuts straight through the act. There is no act for him. He just chops away at the layers until he gets the reaction he wants.

"Where are we going?" Vimes asked curtly. "Why do you want us?" Vetinari directed that impossibly benevolent expression at him, and he felt his blood beginning to boil.

"Just to the palace. There's a small amount of paperwork that needs clearing up."

"Its four in the morning." Lipwig pointed out stiffly.

"Which makes it all the more convenient, since neither of you were likely to be busy. Oh, and-" Drumknott reached under his seat and brought forth a bottle, passing it to Vetinari who passed it to Lipwig, "I assumed you would regret leaving the brandy behind, so I took the liberty of bringing along another bottle."

Neither of them even bothered asking how.

The rest of the journey passed in relative silence, the Patrician occasionally making irritatingly airy comments, and Drumknott usually answering with "Yes, sir." or sometimes "Very insightful, my Lord."

When Vimes stepped out of the carriage, he was surprised to find the snow totally enveloping his foot and reaching over his ankle. The snow outside Lipwig's house, a little way out of the city, had been off-white, but the stuff he was trudging through now was positively grey.

Vetinari lead them up the staircase to his office, showing Lipwig to a small desk Vimes didn't remember existing ever before. There was a pile of ominous-looking paperwork on it. Lipwig gave it a despairing kind of frown, before sitting heavily in the seat behind the desk and picking up the ink pen to begin.

The Patrician watched him work for a moment, then indicated that Vimes take one of the seats that lined the wall by the door. He himself sat down at his own desk and picked up a black, leather-bound book that Vimes tried and failed to catch the title of.

And…time passed. A _lot_ of time.

Lipwig groaned and hit his head on the desk quite a few times. Vimes paced for what he thought may have been five minutes, but could have been five hours, for there was no clock in the room. He occasionally went over to the door and punched the wall to make him feel better.

Vetinari said nothing. He didn't so much as alter his expression.

After a while, light began to filter through the windows. Vimes may have nodded off once or twice, and just before what may have been the third time, Vetinari stood up. Lipwig didn't even notice.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork looked directly at Vimes and placed a finger to his lips. He crossed the room silently, as if he were merely gliding, then glanced back at the Postmaster General who appeared to be on the verge of passing out.

"What are you doing?" Vimes growled from between his teeth. Cigars. He should have remembered the cigars. Why did he always forget the cigars?

"I'm providing a distraction."

"You're torturing him."

"Not at all. It's impossible to distract a mind like Mr Lipwig's. The only way to do it is to give him such a menial task for such a long time that his brain is forced to distract _itself_."

Vetinari and Vimes turned to watch as Lipwig signed off the last piece of paper, picked it up in his hands, stared at it for a few seconds before dropping it onto the pile and dropping his head onto his arms.

"Come, Mr Lipwig. Time to go home."

Lipwig looked up blankly, then rose and followed Vetinari, like a zombie, or a particularly tired dog. Vimes, still seething, although beginning to feel quite hollow from little sleep, went to check the depth of the snow as they left the palace, but four over-eager shovellers cleared the path ahead of them as they walked, making it difficult. He wondered absently what time it was; there was something about sitting in that room - if you stayed there for too long, you forgot that there was even a world outside of it. It was difficult to judge by the sky, as it was darkened with snow clouds, but by the traffic, he concluded it was probably some time around six or seven.

The coach ride back was much the same as the journey there, only with less questions. Vimes' mind was still preoccupied with the question of the time; he considered asking Vetinari, but he was too hacked off with the Patrician and his pride wouldn't let him. He noticed that Lipwig seemed to have snapped out of his trance, falling into another that was driven by anxiety rather than exhaustion, and was gripping the unopened brandy in a white-knuckled grip. As usual, Vetinari was insufferably at ease and apparently unaffected by the fatigue that afflicted all other occupants, bar possibly Drumknott. Vimes suspected that he didn't sleep either.

When the coach drew up outside the Lipwig household after an agonizingly slow journey through the now heavily falling snow, its owner scrambled out and headed straight for the front door. Vimes judged his franticness by his response to Vetinari - he didn't so much as acknowledge the Patrician, and the Commander bit back a smirk as Lipwig actually (accidentally? He hoped not) shut the carriage door in Lord Vetinari's face in his haste to leave. Any pleasantries associated with the golden suit and hat had long since departed. This was pure, unadulterated Moist von Lipwig, who just needed to know if his wife was _okay_ , if his child was _safe_ and really was _not_ in the mood for playing silly buggers, thanks.

When it got down to it, really, he and Lipwig had a horrible amount in common.

"Why did you come back with us, sir?" Vimes asked in a conversational way as the three of them trudge through the snow, following Lipwig's path. "Palace get boring?"

…He'd had about four hours' sleep, okay? That just wasn't enough these days. Gods, he felt old.

"It's only polite, considering I disturbed you. And I believe that…" Vetinari gestured to Drumknott, who gave him a brief glance of his pocket watch. Vetinari nodded matter-of-factly, "…Yes, I believe in a few moments it will be customary to present Mr Lipwig with a strong drink and hearty congratulations."

"How the hell did you calculate that?" Vimes snapped, pushed beyond any interest in politeness (not that he was usually interested in it). There was something very, very wrong about being able to calculate the exact time needed for something so…natural.

"Calculate?" Vetinari raised an eyebrow, "Oh no. I just have infallible dramatic timing."

As they stepped across the threshold, a little part of Vimes that that hoped not-at-all childishly to finally see Vetinari proved inexplicably wrong, died; they walked into the hall just in time to see the door of The Room open and Sybil make her way down the stairs.

Lipwig, standing in the middle of the hall, who had previously turned back to meet his guests, snapped his head back and watched her in a kind of terrified excitement. She reached him and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

"Mr Lipwig, you can go in now," she said quietly.

Lipwig's mouth worked, "Is it...? Is Adora...? Is the baby...?"

"Why don't you go and see for yourself?"

Vimes watched as Lipwig froze on the spot for a few seconds, before scrambling across the hall and practically sprinting up the stairs. Sam put an arm around his wife, squeezing her shoulder lightly. She looked exhausted, but was beaming with the delight of new life.

"A boy," she confided in the three men, "A wonderful little boy."

"Ah, did I not say it would be a boy, Drumknott?" Vetinari steepled his fingers triumphantly.

"You did, my Lord."

"Maybe a playmate for Young Sam one day." Sybil's beam widened yet further, "Maybe another godson for you, Havelock."

Vetinari nodded in a businesslike manner, a smile curling his lips, "Wonderful. Do give them my congratulations, and let Mr Lipwig know that he will not need to return to work for...well, he may have a month off. Good morning, Commander, Lady Sybil."

"That was rather cruel." Vimes pointed out as Vetinari reached the front door.

"Not at all. I was merely providing a distraction. A more successful and far less awkward distraction than yours, may I add. Time simply flew whilst poor Mr Lipwig was in my office."

"What if he'd missed - well-"

"Nonsense. He was always going to get home just in time. Now, the Guild of Merchants is adjourning in twelve minutes, and I like to keep an eye on their meetings. Good day."

Vimes scowled at the retreating back of the Patrician, but Sybil pulled at his arm.

"Never mind, Sam. Come on."

They met Dr Lawn in the doorway as he made his way out, offering them a nod and small smile, then placing his finger on his lips. "Mrs Lipwig needs her rest. Try and keep her husband quiet."

Vimes stepped inside the darkened room after his wife, wincing a little as he caught sight of a small pile of blood-stained sheets and towels that a young maid was collecting up. And then he closed the door behind him, and looked around, and did his level best to hold back a chuckle.

The bed had been stripped and remade, and inside a cocoon of clean white duvets nestled the sleeping Mrs Lipwig, looking decidedly less threatening than her usual self in her slumber. Beside her sat Mr Lipwig, holding a bundle of blankets in his arms and a grin that almost ran from ear to ear. Vimes wasn't sure if this was the Golden Man act back up again, but had a suspicion that right now, Lipwig couldn't care less if he looked like a fool. Again, for the second time that evening and probably only the second time in his life, he seemed to be totally incapable of speech (Vimes suddenly liked him a lot more), simply beaming delightedly at the world in general and occasionally adjusting the blankets in an awkward, although no less happy, way.

His head turned as he noticed the new occupants of the room.

"John!" he blurted out. They stared back at him, blankly. Lipwig grinned sheepishly at his own excitement and quickly corrected himself, "His name, I mean. John. After Adora's father."

Sybil nodded, still beaming, "That's wonderful. Congratulations, Mr Lipwig."

She elbowed Vimes in the ribs and he nodded, "Yes. Congratulations."

Much to Vimes' regret, Lipwig seemed to regain his eloquence very quickly. He turned earnestly to Sybil. "Thank you. So much. I honestly don't-"

"No, no, Mr Lipwig, its fine. No one deserves to be left alone in a situation like that."

"And, Commander Vimes," Lipwig grinned, "Thank you too. Even if-"

Vimes was spared any awkward responses by Mrs Lipwig rolling over and hitting, with surprising accuracy for a woman supposedly asleep, her husband soundly around the face, and then mumbling that he should "Shut up, Moist."

An older woman, previously unnoticed, who Vimes assumed was the midwife Dr Lawn brought, gave Mr Lipwig a frown and shot a look of barely contained disapproval at the visitors.

"Beggin' your pardon Mister Commander, Sybil, but Missus Lipwig needs 'er sleep now." she gave them another meaningful look.

"Of course. Good night, Mr Lipwig."

As he and Sybil hurried back to their house through the snow, Vimes reflected that he had spent an entire night in the company of Moist von Lipwig and hadn't heard a single wisecrack, and the only person that had pissed him off was Lord Vetinari. There was a small (very small) part of Lipwig that had his respect, or at least lost some animosity, although he assumed that in future appearances, the real Moist would very rarely surface again.

He could see that it could be useful, when you dabbled in business and politics, to have a nicer, friendlier, better you to bring out to meet people, but as someone who very rarely held back their opinions and feelings, Vimes couldn't imagine living behind that mask as much as Lipwig did. Surely it would drive a man mad?

"I'll send Willikins round to Pseudopolis Yard, let them know that you'll be going in late."

Sybil's voice cut him out of his thoughts.

"What? In- in late? Sybil, I'm fine, I'll just-"

"Don't be silly, dear," she followed him into the house and patted him on the arm, "Go say good morning to Young Sam, then have a nap. I'm sure the city can deal without you for a morning."

Sybil could be very persuasive with just a pat on the arm.

Smiling to himself at the prospect of seeing his son, Sam Vimes hurried up the stairs -

\- And stopped dead. Then he turned around, grinding his teeth, thinking swear words very loudly.

_Cigars_. Cigars! Why did he always forget the damn cigars?


End file.
